by Juno Dawson
Contents
Title Page
ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
Dedication
Epigraph
Autumn
Chapter One: New
Chapter Two: Her
Chapter Three: Him
Chapter Four: Dandelions
Chapter Five: Papercuts
Chapter Six: Moonlight
Chapter Seven: Blind
Winter
Chapter Eight: Erection
Chapter Nine: Sex
Chapter Ten: Christmas
Chapter Eleven: Secret
Chapter Twelve: No
Chapter Thirteen: Mayor
Spring
Chapter Fourteen: Opportunity
Chapter Fifteen: Inappropriate
Chapter Sixteen: Tribute
Chapter Seventeen: Stasis
Chapter Eighteen: Toilet
Chapter Nineteen: Skin
Chapter Twenty: Shoreditch
Chapter Twenty-One: Protest
Chapter Twenty-Two: Pier
Summer
Chapter Twenty-Three: Dad
Chapter Twenty-Four: Intent
Chapter Twenty-Five: Truth
Chapter Twenty-Six: Art
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Polly
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Beach
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Prom
Chapter Thirty: Diner
Acknowledgements
Juno Dawson
Copyright
ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON
Under My Skin
Say Her Name
Cruel Summer
Hollow Pike
Mind Your Head
This Book is Gay
Being a Boy
For Kerry
In art, as in love, instinct is enough.
Anatole France, The Garden of Epicurus
AUTUMN
Chapter One
New
When I was little, a year seemed like the longest thing in the world. Do you know what I mean? Winters, in my head, were snowier than they actually were, while summers were all paddling pools and bubblegum ice pops. And then, as I got older, time almost ground to a halt – staring out of windows; one Netflix episode rolling right into the next; waiting for my friends in America to come online. The last summer before we moved, I can hardly remember going outside at all.
But then it changed. This year, the fabric of time itself changed, I swear. Bear with me. Although records show there were indeed 365.24 days, each made of twenty-four hours, I fail to believe they were the same minutes I used to wish away. The metronome switched up a gear, the world turned faster – so much so that these days I find myself desperately clinging to milliseconds as they slip through my fingers like water. If I’m honest, this year was a club remix – it was when the beat kicked in.
A lot can happen in a year.
I’d only been in Brompton-on-Sea for the last week of the holidays and I was already able to distinguish the townies from the tourists. The bulldog faces of the locals testified to the shelf life of ice cream, candyfloss and crazy golf. Truth be told, Brompton was a little rough around the edges. Mum called it ‘faded seaside glamour’, I called it ‘shitty’.
First day at Brompton Cliffs Academy, too old to be a new girl. Schools are schools, right? The new one was a photocopy of the old one – and like a facsimile, it was more tatty and cheaper-looking too – peeling Stonewall posters, broken lockers. To make things worse, my brand-new cherry-red Docs were already scraping away my heels. At their current rate, by the end of the day, bone would be exposed.
I might as well have been strutting nude down the corridor – that’s how openly people were gawping at me. It occurred to me that a New Girl at a relatively small sixth form must be pretty big news. As I joined the drizzle-damp procession of pupils filing through the student entrance, I wore my Unimpressed Face. I always think Unimpressed Face is a good default. Better than Needy Face, Try-hard Face or Victim Face. I was getting the full-body scan: Who is she? Is she new? Is she pretty-and-by-that-I-mean-competition? I wondered how long it would last for. I didn’t like the spotlight one little bit, I felt … lumpy.
I’d been told, via a letter from the head of sixth form, to report to ‘The Little Hall’ for assembly at nine. I’d arrived late on purpose to avoid awkward mingling in a sea of strangers. Like I didn’t feel exposed enough already. I was pretty sure I’d make friends sooner or later, I just wished they were waiting for me on arrival like an airport driver with a name card. I’d pre-emptively wasted some time at the newsagents en route, buying a super-sad-looking cheese sandwich (one half orange cheese, one half yellow – why? How?) and some crisps, anticipating further social horror at lunchtime. Oh it was fine. I could feel the corner of a book poking into my back through my bag. As I recall I was on my annual reread of Azkaban. You’re never truly by yourself when you have a book in your bag.
The directions Mr Wolff, the Head of Sixth Form, had provided were easy to follow: the Little Hall was located past a plastic-plant-paradise of a reception area and was signposted clearly enough. It also didn’t take a genius to figure out that all the pupils out of uniform, the sixth-formers, were obviously heading in one direction like a train of ants. Or lemmings.
A boy with extreme Needy Face held the door open for me and I slotted myself into the hall. It was set up like the drama studio at my old school – there was a rostrum with a lighting rig and a few rows of patched-with-gaffer-tape padded benches to sit on. There was a sour smell like something had been left under a seat all summer to rot – or perhaps spilled milk. Most of the rows were pretty full, which was a good thing – now I didn’t have to make any decisions about where to sit, I just had to find any available space. As ever, the back rows had filled first, so I plumped for a space near the wall at the furthest end of the front row where I’d be tucked away.
I don’t think it’s arrogant to suggest that every pair of eyes was on me as I took my seat. This too shall pass, I told myself. One of my online friends, Beth, had a foolproof plan for fitting in and making friends:
1. Ask thoughtful, interesting questions.
2. Laugh at other people’s jokes.
3. When they least expect it, say something FILTHY.
It really did seem to work, but I also didn’t want to be the one to make the first move – again, Needy. I’m going to be honest now: socially speaking I’m a middly person. Although I did my two-year braces sentence to sort my snaggleteeth, I’ve never been one of the truly unfortunate cases – the ones who stand out like beacons however hard they try – you know the ones I mean. Some days I look at those guys and my heart just breaks because I feel so impotent. Like school roulette isn’t hard enough as it is! I wonder what messed-up messitude they must have done in a past life. I console myself knowing they’re the Mark Zuckerbergs of tomorrow and we’ll all be working for them in ten years.
On that first day, looking back, I was as boring as organic gluten-free porridge with no sugar. If I wanted, I could be totally invisible at Brompton Cliffs. I had been a wallpaper chameleon at my old school and hadn’t ruled that option out here. I could sail through my last two years of school without anyone knowing I was even there.
Luckily, I didn’t have to make the first move. I’d only been in my corner for about a minute – putting my phone on silent and stowing my headphones – when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned round to see the biggest pair of eyes I’d ever seen; it was like a bush baby Pokémon staring down at me from the row behind.
‘Hello,’ said the girl. ‘You must be Victoria Grand, the new girl.’
‘I prefer Toria … but yeah, hi.’
‘We’ve been expecting you! Oh! Did that make me sound like a Bond villain? Sorry. I’m Daisy We
ekes.’ She smiled sweetly with dainty little teeth. She was a living, breathing porcelain doll, right down to her golden ringlets.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘News travels fast.’
‘Oh,’ Daisy said. ‘No. I was sent to find you. I’m supposed to show you around. I’m your tour guide! Or your Toria guide!’
I could not have felt more like a tool. Arrogant much? ‘Oh, sorry, that’s embarrassing.’
Daisy giggled. ‘No! It’s true, you are headline news. Being a new girl is a pretty big deal, although not as big a deal as the fact that the canteen is now serving cinnamon swirls. But every guy in here is probably sizing you up right now. You’re fresh meat. Be careful not to slip in the drool.’
Laugh at other people’s jokes. I laughed way too enthusiastically, practically throwing my head back like a whinnying horse. Luckily Daisy didn’t seem to notice, but even so I reeled it in a little.
‘I like your coat,’ Daisy said, stroking one of the epaulettes of my US Army fatigues coat with a chipped purple nail. I was going through a vintage phase.
‘Thanks. I like yours too.’ Daisy was wearing a vast black fur. I could only pray it was fake. It had to be, right? Her child-like body was swaddled in it, her silk-fine blonde curls bunched up around the collar. This was as close as I was going to get to meeting Luna Lovegood.
‘You can come sit next to me if you like,’ she offered, and I could have cried with relief. ‘Unless you don’t want to.’
‘No, that’d be great, thanks. Better than being a total loner.’ At my old school, I’d only had two friends – but at least I’d never been alone. In school, like on the Serengeti, jackals pick off strays first.
Daisy smiled and made room on her bench. ‘True, but you’re really pretty so I didn’t know if you’d feel more at home on the back row.’
I assure you I am not really pretty – my forehead is more of a fivehead – but I turned to see what she meant. On the back row were our Plastics. Every school has its own popular group, I got that, but they’re always slightly different. At my old school the popular girls were a lot tougher – hard pramfaces with over-plucked eyebrows and foundation like butterscotch cake icing. These girls were more polished – metres and metres of expertly highlighted hair tousled to resemble luxe birds’ nests. One of the leaders must have declared floral prints were on-trend because the back row resembled the pot-pourri my mum put in the bathroom.
It was time to deploy my ‘something filthy’. ‘Oh I’m not one of those girls,’ I said with a smile. ‘I haven’t got time for all the hair and handjobs.’
Daisy giggled and it was like tinkling flower bells. ‘You’ve totally sussed them out! They always smell so nice though.’
I wasn’t sure what to say to that but laughed politely because of social skills. Some newcomers filed into the row and sat next to Daisy. The first was a milky-pale chunky girl hiding behind greasy hair-curtains, the second was a guy who looked like a walking teddy bear.
‘Hi Dais,’ said the guy. ‘Is this the hotly anticipated Victoria Grand?’
‘Everyone calls me Toria,’ I said. Feeling braver, I offered my hand and he looked terrified of it. Was that too formal? Had I just committed social suicide? Was I doomed to be known as Handshake Girl until the end of time? Thankfully he took it and gave it a very limp shake. Limp handshakes are the worst.
‘This is Beasley and Freya,’ Daisy explained.
‘Hey,’ Beasley said, blushing and wiping his hand on his trousers. ‘How’s it going?’
Freya couldn’t even look me in the eye, only muttering a greeting under her breath before taking out a battered paperback and starting to read. ‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said. I tried to think of something funny or complimentary to say, but I was at a loss.
‘How are you finding Brompton-on-Sea?’ Beasley plonked his thick behind onto the bench. His T-shirt was a little too tight so he kinda looked like he had boobs.
I winced. ‘Honest answer or polite answer?’
‘Oh god, honest answer. I was born here – hating this dump is in my genetic make-up.’ He was a tiny bit camp and I wondered if he was gay. However, I had figured out a long time ago that, as with asking women with big bellies if they’re pregnant, asking a guy if he’s gay when you’ve only just met is a no-no.
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘it’s pretty tragic. What’s with all the fish and chip shops?’
‘It’s the one thing we’re famous for. Brompton fish and chips are the best in the country. Fact.’
‘My old town was famous for curry.’
‘I hate curry!’ Daisy stuck her tongue out.
Beasley sighed. ‘The nearest Indian is twenty miles outside town and it keeps getting shut down by hygiene inspectors. This is kinda racist, and it probably isn’t even true, but I heard they were serving stray cat.’
I laughed (this time a little uncomfortably) and assured him that that urban legend did the rounds in every town. I considered telling them I was part Indian before one of them said something actually racist, but decided against it. White people don’t have to announce their ethnicity, so I don’t see why I should have to explain that my mum Shamed The Family by marrying my (very much not Punjabi) dad. I’m assured that it was pretty scandalous back in the day, but that particular dust settled when my granddad died shortly after I was born.
Looking around, I clocked the ethnic mix of the school wasn’t a mix at all. There were, like, three Asians and one mixed guy. I was at White People High. Not surprising; Brompton-on-Sea isn’t exactly a cultural melting pot. Because of my first name (my middle name is Esha) and paleness, a lot of people don’t know I’m mixed unless I tell them, which means I’ve probably had all sorts of white-girl privileges, but also meant that back home, or rather at my old home, people used to say shockingly racist stuff about brown people in earshot, not knowing they were slagging off half my family.
Mr Wolff, who had the smile, silver hair and jawline of a retired catalogue model, came on stage and we fell quiet. The inauguration to the sixth form was pretty much as I’d expected. What was somewhat reassuring was that sixth-form life was new for everyone, not just me, even if everyone else did have their friends all pinned down. There was a lot of chat about responsibility and how if we acted like adults, we’d be treated like adults. I phased out after the first few minutes, to be honest, and started hungrily daydreaming about the yellow/orange cheese sandwich.
I’d been paired with Daisy, it transpired, because we were taking exactly the same options: English Lit., English Lang., French and Art. I so wish I could be one of those hard-core girls who does Physics, Maths and … Space Robotics or something, but that’s not my skill set, sorry to be yet another cliché. I like creating stuff, and I used to write poems for a while. Before I got a computer, I used to make little books and magazines out of scrap paper; once I did get a computer, I started my blog and taught myself Photoshop. I’m quite proud of that.
After assembly, Daisy and I headed to French. My avoirs and êtres were more than a little rusty, but it quickly became clear that Daisy was really, really good at French. We’d both got A-stars last year (I know, thank you kindly) but I suspected her A-star was better than mine and if she’d been able to achieve A-star-star she would have. She was generous though – helping me along when I got stuck.
I noticed that her notebook was covered in tiny illustrations. Like a little comic strip. ‘They’re cool,’ I said. ‘What are they?’
‘Oh, that’s Geoff the Cross-Dressing Squirrel.’
‘What?!’ I felt the interrobang was necessary.
Daisy smiled and slid her book over. ‘Oh, it’s just this little soap opera I do for Beasley. It’s about Geoff and all his squirrel friends.’ She pointed to one little squirrel with googly eyes. He wore a boob tube and hooker boots.
‘This is Geoff? Oh, he’s fancy.’
‘I know!’ She pointed to another squirrel, this one with hair falling over one eye. ‘That is Evil Celine, his arch nemesis.�
��
‘Well, the clue’s in the name!’ It was quite complex. Evil Celine had stolen a baby from Geoff and his strapping boyfriend, Rhett, and had replaced it with an evil one. Compelling stuff. The doodles were hilarious and I knew at once I wanted Daisy to be a Proper Friend.
The first part of the morning was tolerable. It sort of felt good to have some order back in my life. Does that make me sound autistic? Since we’d moved, I’d been free-falling – too much time on my hands – and there was something reassuring about having my options narrowed and my time neatly divided by a clock and a bell. At break Daisy explained how the school worked. The sixth form was autonomous from the rest of the school. We had our own wing – a modern annex that looked a bit like a Travelodge – and a special line at the canteen. We also had a common room and this was new to us all.
‘I guess we should check it out,’ Daisy said. ‘Although most of the people in our year are a bit rubbish, I’m afraid.’
‘Most people are.’
Daisy shook her head, curls bouncing. ‘No! I think there’s always diamonds if you dig deep enough.’
We entered the common room and I got a sense of what Daisy meant. For one thing, it reeked of pickled-onion-flavour Monster Munch. Not good. There were airport-style padded chairs in rows, a few beanbags and a vending machine, but it was mostly like a large classroom with all the desks taken out. A ping-pong table and two computers, which had almost definitely been retired from use elsewhere in the school, were shoved down at the far end.